dark blue, and her girlish face
indicated some culture and refinement.

Near her, upon the grass, lay a piece of brown wrapping paper, and a
yard of two of string, evidently removed from a small, square box, which
she had dropped and partly fallen upon when stricken with sudden death.

A mere glance gave Nick these superficial features, and he quickly knelt
beside the girl, and felt her hand and wrist.

"Dead as a doornail," he murmured to Chick, who also had approached. "I
find her hand still warm, however. She can have been dead only a few
minutes."

"Heart failure, perhaps," suggested Chick.

"I don't think so."

"Why?"

"She doesn't look it. Her form is plump, her cheeks full, and she
appears to have been in perfect health."

"Yet she is dead."

"No doubt of it."

"A pretty girl, too."

"Very. See if there is any writing on that brown paper."

"No, Nick; not a line."

"Here, here, let me see it! What's this? It is punctured with tiny
holes, evidently made with a pin."

"So it is, by Jove!"

"Perhaps she made them with her hat pin, while sitting there on the
seat. See, Chick, there is the pin still in the hat."

"I see it, Nick. What now?"

Still kneeling beside the girl, Nick was holding the sheet of paper
between himself and the sky.

"No, the punctures are not uniform," said he. "I thought that they
possibly had been made with some design, and perhaps formed some word or
sentence that would give us a clew to the mystery."

"None such, eh?"

"Not a sign of it. Evidently she jabbed the pin through the paper only
in idleness."

"She is lying on a box of some kind, from which she probably had taken
this wrapping paper."

"So I see," nodded Nick. "Lend me a hand, Chick, and we'll have a look
at the box."

With gentle hands the two detectives moved the girl's lifeless form, and
Nick then took up the box mentioned.

It was about four inches square, and was made of silver, with an open
work design of vines and leaves, which displayed a blue silk lining
through the metal apertures. Plainly enough it was a lady's jewel
casket, and one of considerable value; but it was entirely empty, and it
bore no name or inscription.

For several moments Nick Carter examined it very intently, with his
brows gradually knitting closer and closer; and all the while Officer
Fogarty, and the group of men in the gravel walk a few yards distant,
mutely gazed and wondered.

Chick Carter, however, who could re